fitting the white dress
falling fifteen feet
failing to reach you
this union, this shattering, this longing
we made something, didn’t we?
pins in the hem
pins in the bones
pins on the map
this magic, this impact, this sickness
we wove something, didn’t we?
our love wasn’t always a passive verb
i loved you
i was loved by you
i was love
somehow we lost the thread
who pulled the pin?
the dress doesn’t fit
the limp is just a shadow
the distance keeps growing
The Outpost is situated at the axis where space meets time. It is the only here I know. After leaving so many theres it is only here that I am home.
Imagine a compass rose. Imagine North & South to be space. Imagine East & West to be time. Imagine a double exposed photograph where a young girl and an old woman are occupying one body. Imagine this old girl is writing you love letters from the preconception beyond death. Imagine a pivot point where the needle centers on the compass. Imagine here.
I am not checking passports. Every refugee is welcome here.
& when they say “you have nothing”
or when they say “you are no one”
Remember The Outpost.
Imagine it here at the pivot point.
Here at the axis where space & time collide.
We have always been here.
We will always come back.
the brain is a feral five pound meat maze
where sense-grenades wage war with reason’s meter
it pulls the pins and it counts the syllables–
rearranging it’s fleshy neurochemical electric grid landscape
to suit the non-Euclidean geography of our experience
I will not erase you from me — I cannot. I would not.
I would rather scoop out my eyes– cut off my left hand — do violence against my own atomic structure.
you were my approximate parallel for so long that our roots are entangled.
we nourished each other for so long that I would starve without our history.
in the eternal past there is an always-us
in the eternal present there is no us
in the eternal future there is no certainty but this:
there will never be a me that does not love you
I will not erase you — I cannot, I would not.
yes to slate I am made of you.
yes to silk it is strong & flexible & it turns the light inside out.
yes to water how can I resist you when you call me with your liquid tongue?
& yes to the tree corpse you are shaping to hold some body
yes to the sawdust smell of your hands
& yes to all this witchcraft of remembering
yes to the pulp mill steam rising from the morning
I cannot choose which sense to abandon —
not the eyes of sight
never the skin of touch
not the tongue of taste
nor the highway nose
never the ears of song
& these pieces
this wood (yes)
this water (yes)
this slate (yes)
this silk (yes)
this memory (yes)
have conspired to keep a secret from us
but feelings aren’t facts.
maybe it’s all addition (+)
all multiplication (x)
all more than we can survive (∞)
maybe searching through all this living for some balanced equation is pointless
& yet all this thinking — analysis — probing — dissection
seems compulsory when faced with such large integers
even divorce is not division
even death is not subtraction
we are working with imaginary numbers & faulty syntax
grasping for some variable greater than, equal to, & less than zero.
(>, =, & < 0)
the hunger of split types
when we phase towards shadow
baffled by the absence of light
wholeness in this mildewed paper
whole and whole again in the sun
capsules of chemical union on our tongues
& in all this: a longing
a desire for a union beyond union
a return to our origin
unaided by chemistry